poem: Hermit by Paul Malécot


Narrow is
the path of the story-teller
as he wends his way
through large boulders
at the foot
of the cliffs that guard
the mountain wilderness.

It is nearly sunset,
the chaparral long with shadow
as he lopes across the foothills
towards the river.

As he enters
the shadow of the far ridge,
he drops off the mesa
into the flood plain,

The smoke of the campfire becomes
his guide, the scent of dinner and
the music of conversation taunt him;
he has been long in isolation,

Mining the collective unconscious
and surely bears with him
many new stories,
as yet unheard.


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